Swaddled Poems | Examples

Dweller of Our Heart

Line of inquiry: “the essence in us is the same
                             as the essence of the sun”

Dweller of Our Heart

I can’t hear its crackle or sizzle. What am I?
Swaddled in the all-encompassing wisdom
of light; it burns slow. I develop: a seed to die.
My eyes move as my head spins around the world.
There are only so many spaces my foot will land;
not on the moon; moonbeams in my burnt-orange hair.

Warm-blooded rays reach out and touch; skin to skin.
I illuminate someone else’s countenance with my smile.
My Summer eyes grab hold of theirs; a plum blush.
When Winter comes, I’m far-removed ; housebound.
Still, I will be replaced; it's not me. What are they?

Poetic Censorship

The red pen hovers like a hawk,
its beak sharp with erasure.
Words are stripped of their fever,
left pale, bloodless, trembling.

A thought, once naked,
is swaddled in gauze—
so the wound won’t offend.

The page shivers in silence.
I watch my tongue,
tethered in the mouth’s dark stall.

A candle tries to speak in flame,
but the wax floods its throat.

Behind the curtain,
the truth grows mildew,
while the official story
shines like polished bone.

Sunny-Side Up

The Summer sun shimmered upon the lake.
Sunny-side up, the sky, the brightest soak.
Its reflection - a breathing space intake.
Stay on the path for its easy, light yolk.

The darker side, with two-sail boat, deep sighs.
In awe of ebb and flow, in Spirit’s glide.
In the shadow of God, in morning rise,
before your chores call you - a soothing ride.

Serenity is deep and wide. A smile
of warmth before the Fall. Glass eyes glisten.
Your heart, is calm, in solitude. Do wile
away the day, to soothing splash. Listen…

Lax days, upon the sea and sky, compose.
You hide in God’s glory - swaddled shadows.

Love of a Rose

Early mornin dew dripp'd flower
Rosy Red awaits the hour
Lifts her bloom and greets the day
To sup the misty mornin rays
She fawns upon the golden hue
Swaddled in the mantled blue
Till sunny orb quits daytime skies
To veil its face from longing eyes
So Rosy Red doth nod her bloom
And bide her time in shadowed gloom
To dream the dreams that only may
Wish anew the break of day

Age Appropriate

Whining, is age appropriate,
With wrinkles - both newborns and aged.
Boo-hoos - in cradle; before grave.
The old straitened; babes’ swaddled.

With wrinkles, both newborns and aged,
They are bathed, despoiled, and diapered.
The old straitened; babes’ swaddled.
Rock and roll lullabies, falling.

They are bathed, despoiled, and diapered.
Boo-hoos - in cradle, before grave.
Rock and roll lullabies, falling.
Whining is age-appropriate.

If only this could last forever

feels so close I could walk up and
with my finger touch the moon 

seems like nothing else
exists and i’m alone
swaddled in a tranquility
that’s magnificent and surreal

i can feel it pulsate to the beat
of Mother Earth’s cadent heart

there’s a distinct aura of tangible complicity
and this is where i belong
right here in the now of it



AP: Honorable Mention 2025

Etched in Stone

Contest: This or That, Vol 30 – 2-4-25 Sponsor: Edward Ibeh  - Title Chosen: Etched in Stone
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Etched in Stone

Two hearts glare at each other
Clutching their stone tablets
 Written by the finger of their rightness,
  Guarding the secret handshake
In single sighted delinquent tantrums
Refusing to share the offertory
 Of a loving cup - 
Consumed by daggers of thoughtless words
Carved deeply in a scarred heart.

Floral offerings wilt 
Upon stone manifestos
Where ashes of incense lay impotent
To clear the air
And wipe clean the embedded words.

Passion falls in pixels of distortion
Blurring valleys where sacred poles burn –
 Lie in dust written in the past –
Paralyzed 
Unable to rise from handwritten crypts
Placed in captive marble altars,
Epithets like an epitaph for love.

Immoveable stone resists the transcendent
Until forgiveness’ chisel
Re-writes the script of etched words
Crumbling in swaddled tears of humility
That know their need for grace
Consummated in love’s perfect signature.

We Who’ve Lived Many Christmases

Tis time for Christmas,
aches and all.
We have a stake
in a babe’s nativity -
swaddled all
in God’s creativity.

Star-wonder.
Moonlight.
Crestfallen snow white.

Buried beneath happiness
are many who have fallen asleep.

We must keep up
traditions of light,
merry and bright.

Our teeth must glisten,
and our tongues must tell tales,
for a new generation to listen.

We who’ve lived many Christmases
must hang our tears in stockings,
decorate our trees with memories.

Each generation thinks their gifted
something new. The old is regifted.

Our eyes sparkle, ever brighter,
like Benjamin Button
when he’s born old
and dies in infanthood.

Both sides of a copper penny shine,
then the luster subsides,
but the soul resides
in a Christmas-y place
with pearls and lace,
streets of pure gold,
where nothing gets old.

Tis time for Christmas…
Hope and all…

Gross Grandeur

Nectarous taste would not surcease 
in torture now that’s my showpiece;
 
I sit in a hard chair pallid,
there’s solace in something solid; 

Give fine obeisance to the madness,
decayed memories savor sadness;

Such enmity in your answer,
the pinnacle of gross grandeur;

Your lotion now my nepenthe,
letting me drown so easily;

Rocking on this rickety porch,
that scent hits me like a blowtorch;

Alone, I want to be swaddled 
in each moment that we bottled;

I’m locked in a living tomb
rusted with such a stale gloom;

Filthy stench, can you smell it? 
Perfume for some to covet;

In a cataleptic state
circumvention seen too late;

Doppelgänger could not withdraw,
prose signed ‘Edgar Ravenclaw’.

Monochrome

A band of comrades rather strange I think you will agree
This oddball bunch together shared a commonality…


The panda didn’t pander to the niceties of style
He wore his usual coat which he had done for quite some while

The zebra was a Libra with an eye for what’s in fashion
She loved the skin she’s swaddled in and flaunted it with passion

The badger was a cadger but he didn’t want your suit
He’ll cadge your lunch but he’s content with being so hirsute

The puffin felt like nuffin with his massive beaky nose 
But still he kept his chin up for he rather liked his clothes

The magpie wouldn’t lie although he was prepared to steal
His virtues might be fake but his apparel very real

The Penguin was depending on a chance to show his class
His haute couture was something that was absolute top brass

The skunk just stunk, not all the time, but when occasion rose
His looks were good but he was quite offensive to the nose

The orca wasn’t happy to be so far from the sea
Though he was quite a corker in his shiny livery…


So when they met the parrot they tried not to put him down
But one of them just had to say… “Did you come as a clown?”

Ode for a Fortunate Infant

Ode for a Fortunate Infant

Newborn: 
  Smacked and 
    Screaming —
 Hardly more than a new fact,
    A statistic
Already forgetting
    The crush into Becoming.
This “tabula rasa,” 
Kicking and flailing,
Not yet swaddled or cradled,
Held only by Fate
In the first minutes of Destiny 
  (unformed and waiting)
With a heart
Needing to be embracd
By more than just touch,
But blessed to completely feel
The warmth of Acceptance 
That founds a first sense
Of Identity as being a Self 
    Here linked with Others…
For the first lessons of Love — 
Swaddled in belonging
Wrapped with thanksgiving. 





(c) s.y.eslnger 5/24/2024
Thanks be to God…

Covered in Blue

I have seen many hues of blue, some deeper and darker than others.Some hues of blue were like storm clouds that hang in the sky, threatening and menacing before they dumped their rain that ran through my eyes of blue.Some hues of blue were a light soft blue, like the soft blankets that I had swaddled my babies in.Those hues of blue were so beautiful that i kept those hues of blues in my eyes that had seen other hues of blue.Some hues of blue were like the blues of a tsunami the blue hues of the roaring, rushing ocean that left me gasping for breath and I turned a hue of blue when I saw my light blue hues no longer

A Native Nativity

You try to make them civilized and grown-up,
but the words are infants,
they want to crawl around and yell for a bit.

You know that an eye is upon you.
watching you in that whelping room
where creation rearranges molecules
into a planetary system of speech
made of matchsticks and glue.

A poem is about to be splashed,
onto a speeding window of light.

Logic and reason must first
bash their bulbous heads together,
until their mechanical, self-winding brains
fall out.

The collective humming of incubators,
begins to lipread your silence.
A process similar to hand washing.

Eventually a swaddled indigenous form,
unwraps itself,
it begins to walk upright.

Matchsticks and glue
form readable fragments.

You begin to hope,
that someone inside that watching eye
will name what you have done -
even attempt,
to explain it to you.

Amethyst Skies

Sunset painted a dramatic farewell scene
across the bay's horizon, bold and yet serene,
in a moment that stole my breath from me
as the fading sun slowly drowned in the sea.

He was lovingly swaddled by amethyst skies
as sanguine clouds whispered their goodbyes.
Soon, a silvered moon would take his place,
smiling upon the earth with feminine grace.

Winter's Womb

Winter’s Womb 1-18-24 45 Syllables
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Winter’s Womb

In the temple of winter’s womb pearls of crystal plant snowflowers
Swaddled in thick quilts of snow in sacred silence nature swells
Frosty plumes birth from wild whirlwinds, in crystalline rhythmic rimes.

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